


I Solemnly Swear That I Am Up to No Good

by moonlitserenades



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitserenades/pseuds/moonlitserenades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a tumblr post, which I cannot currently find, that talked about how brilliant it would have been if not all of the Marauders had been in Gryffindor.</p>
<p>Featuring: Sirius Black in Hufflepuff; Remus Lupin in Ravenclaw; Peter Pettigrew and Severus Snape in Slytherin; and James Potter and Lily Evans in Gryffindor. </p>
<p>Oh, yes, there will be mischief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Solemnly Swear That I Am Up to No Good

**Author's Note:**

> Character lists and warnings will be updated as needed. My goal is to follow this through their seven years, though I'll likely create a new story for each year. I've placed other people in Houses and years based on my own personal whims, if we don't know their full backstory; consider it part of the 'canon divergence' bit, if we ever do find out more about them. :)
> 
> Also, all opinions belong to the character expressing them, and not necessarily to myself...

“Black, Sirius,” says the stern-looking woman Dromeda has told him is called Professor McGonagall. He trots forward, nervous excitement sharp in his belly, and sits on the rickety stool to await his fate. _Hmm,_ says the hat in his ear, making him jump a little even though he’d known to expect it. _An interesting mind here. Quite a history, too...your whole family in Slytherin, isn’t it?_ It asks the question as though it isn’t well aware. As though it hadn’t put them all there. Sirius blinks, thinking wryly, _obviously._

_You could be, too,_ the hat tells him, undeterred. _You’ve got the ambition for it. But there is a lot more here. Bravery. Kindness, at times. A deep capacity for love. You, young Sirius, could go anywhere._

But this is taking longer than Sirius had been prepared for, and the courage he’d found on the train (“maybe I’ll be the first in my family to go somewhere else”) is fading fast. He thinks about the burn mark on his family tree where Dromeda’s name used to be, and wavers, uncertain.

_It might do you good, being somewhere else._

She might take him in, if the others disown him. She probably would. If it came to that. It might not, though...maybe his family might understand? That’s unlikely--his mother’s face swims into his mind’s eye, looking disgusted, and he represses a shudder.

But the hat doesn’t seem to care much about that, because a moment later, it’s shouted “HUFFLEPUFF,” and is Sirius imagining the note of amusement in its voice? For a moment, he thinks it’s a joke. He sits a moment longer on the stool, startled, heart pounding hard in his ears. But it doesn’t seem to be speaking up anymore, and then Professor McGonagall is coming over to take the hat, and he pulls himself to his feet with what he hopes is the dignity befitting a Black. Even the first one in generations not to be placed in Slytherin, Andromeda included. And of all places to end up; what have Hufflepuffs got going for them? When has a Hufflepuff ever done anything noteworthy with his life? His mother has never even bothered mentioning it, as though people in that House are a complete nonentity. Numbly, Sirius moves forward. They’re all applauding him, looking delighted, as though they don’t realize how very much he doesn’t belong with them. 

He slides a glance toward the Slytherin table and immediately wishes he hadn’t. None of them look scandalized, but they wouldn’t--it wouldn’t be appropriate. But Narcissa is watching him coldly, and Lucius Malfoy seems to be whispering to the person beside him, looking entertained. Sirius feels, suddenly, rather ill and not at all hungry, but he focuses all his efforts on choosing a seat. He turns his back on the table to continue watching the Sorting and inadvertently ignores the witch beside him, who had attempted to greet him. He doesn’t even hear her--he is focusing very hard on looking unruffled. As though he has no feelings whatsoever about this.

Lily Evans watches him go thoughtfully. She’s done quite a bit of reading on all four of the Houses since she’d got her letter, and she still isn’t quite sure where she’d like to be. Isn’t sure where she thinks she’ll end up, either. If she’s being honest with herself (and she’s a bit afraid to be, eleven years old and so far removed from this world until _this very moment_ as she’s been), she’s not sure it’s a particularly logical process, letting a hat decide where she’ll live for a whole _seven years._

But, the school is thousands of years old already. They must know what they're doing. She resolves to stop worrying about it and continue her wide-eyed admiration of the Great Hall. It's more beautiful than she ever dared to imagine. And for a moment she lets herself wonder what it might be like if Petunia were here with her: standing behind her, jabbering in her ear about the state of that one's robes, and the ceiling is amazing, and just look at those ghosts, Lily, _ghosts!_ Can you imagine! They would be pressed closer than necessary, enjoying the familiarity of having a beloved sister to be with, both pretending that there's the slightest chance they'll end up in the same house. Both hoping.

Or would they be? And does Tuney even love her, really, now that...

Turns out thinking about Petunia makes her sad, so Lily casts her eyes around her again, drinking in the splendor of the hall to distract herself.

"Evans, Lily!"

Eagerly, she half-jogs to the stool and sits. The hat falls over her eyes, and she thinks about pushing it back so that she can still see; but then the hat starts to talk, and distracts her. _Hello, Miss Evans._

_Hello,_ she thinks, bemused.

_Very bright, you are,_ the hat tells her. She knows that, in the matter-of-fact way of the young, but it makes her glow to hear someone (something?) else say it. _But I certainly wouldn’t call it a defining characteristic. No, I think I know just the place for you, the first witch in your family, brave enough to face up to your sister’s jealousy…_

And before she can puzzle out how she feels about that, the hat has shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!” and she’s hurrying across the hall to the table cheering the loudest.

As the ceremony continues, Remus Lupin finds it increasingly difficult to stop himself shaking. What if Dumbledore was wrong? What if they’ve changed their minds? Or, worse still, what if the hat sees inside his mind and it decides they shouldn’t keep him? What if it whispers that he’s too dangerous, that he shouldn’t be allowed too close to the others--the ones who are whole? Remus wonders if he might be sick, and is briefly grateful that he hadn’t had much to eat today. 

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, clenching fingers around the soft fabric inside to hide the way they tremble. Tilts his head back to watch the purplish storm clouds chase themselves across the enchanted ceiling. Startles when Professor McGonagall calls, “Lupin, Remus!” in crisp tones.

So he walks, willing himself to look calm. Sits. Considers closing his eyes, until the hat drops too low on his head and casts the hall in darkness anyway. It’s sort of a relief, he thinks, and immediately feels like a coward for it.

_You are no coward, Remus Lupin,_ the hat breathes in his ear, and he’d read about that, he was ready for it, so he only jumps a little. _Clever, too,_ it continues, _and there’s something of an acerbic wit here, if you’ll ever let it out. There’s a lot here that you ought to let out, and I think I know just the place to help you do it._

“RAVENCLAW!” it shouts, and Remus is practically weak with relief as Professor McGonagall takes off the hat. People are cheering. Cheering! For him! He’s too happy to let it occur to him what might happen if they found out the truth; too busy having his hands wrung by the Ravenclaw prefects and then sliding onto the wooden bench beside a boy a few years older than himself, who wastes no time in passing him a plate.

Remus smiles, hope blossoming warm and bright in his chest.

“God, I wish they’d get on with it,” mutters the boy behind Peter Pettigrew, sighing through his nose. “I’m bloody _starving._ ” 

Peter wipes his sweating hands on his robes for the umpteenth time and wishes he could be so cavalier about it. The storm is making him twitchy enough as it is, much less the anxiety of having no bloody clue where he’ll end up, and he can’t seem to stand still. He shifts on the balls of his feet, wondering if his heart is really beating so loud that everyone else can hear. Watches his classmates being Sorted without managing to pay proper attention, really. The only thing he knows for sure is that so far, three of the people he’s met on the train have gone their separate ways. He doesn’t like that, much. He’d hoped...well, he’s got to be with at least one of them, hasn’t he, there were more than four. He likes the possibility of that. He recognizes no one else at any of the long tables, and he can’t help but worry about the fact that he’s not sure where he’ll fit.

“Pettigrew, Peter!”

The calling of his name comes with a poorly-timed clap of thunder; he trips over his own feet as he startles over it and nearly goes sprawling. It’s something of a miracle when he manages to catch himself without hitting the ground, his face burning at the nervous laughter of those around him. It’s a relief to have the hat placed on his head, a relief not to have to look at all the staring faces.

_Peter Pettigrew,_ the hat half-sings, and pops on the alliteration of it, and he jumps so badly he nearly slips off his stool. _How interesting to peek into this mind of yours._

Peter feels his eyes widen in the darkness. Interesting is a word he barely dares to ascribe to himself, and he can’t remember anyone ever using it to describe him before.

_Oh yes, Mr. Pettigrew, there is much, much more here than anyone who knows you can imagine. Yourself included, I think._

_Like what,_ Peter thinks, and he doesn’t know what he wants the hat to tell him, really. That he’s actually brilliant, or brave, or any number of those wonderful things that get you written into a textbook? Or just that he won’t fall flat on his face--that he can do this, get through this, and not end up all on his own at the end?

_Ah, but that’s for you to find out, isn’t it?_ the hat practically purrs. _My job is just to put you where you have the best chance of growing. If you’ll give me a moment, I think I should be able to pick the best possible place for you…_

The ‘moment’ takes what feels like hours, until the hat finally says, _It’s a tough decision, but I have a good idea of where you should be…_

Peter is practically vibrating with anticipation by this point, and when the hat shouts, “SLYTHERIN,” he nearly slips off the stool yet again, in shock. He’s heard about Slytherins--cunning, ambitious, cutting Slytherins--and he cannot imagine himself finding a home there. But another part of him can’t be bothered to care, much, because he’s so relieved to have been given a place at all. He hurries across the hall and drops, rather more heavily than he’d meant to, into a seat.

The Sorting is more than half over now, and James Potter’s turn could not have come fast enough. Not like he doesn’t know where he’s going to go, but he’s so impossibly eager to get there that it’s taking all of his eleven-year-old restraint not to bounce up and down on the tips of his toes.

“Potter, James!” and he’s _going,_ strolling in long strides across the Great Hall like he’s been there years already and is just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. _Another Potter, eh,_ the hat says, sounding amused. _I know just where to put you._ And James is grinning hard and unabashed and the hat is shouting, “GRYFFINDOR,” and _yes,_ that’s it! He’s beaming as he goes to the table, mind whirring with possibility and excitement and already crafting the letter he’ll write to tell his father the news. He sits next to the redheaded girl from the train, who doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

“I’m James,” he announces loudly, unwilling to be ignored.

“I remember,” she says. She’s already got her linen napkin spread over her lap, and she flicks a piece of fuzz off of it without looking at him. And then, at last, she offers, “I’m Lily.”

She’d never said her name on the train. “Lily,” he says, trying it out, and beams, deciding he likes the way it fits in his mouth.

By now, of those who had met in that tiny compartment on the Hogwarts Express, only Severus Snape remains standing in line. He stands with just as much certainty about where he’ll end up as James Potter had--but there’s something tempering the excitement now. The flame-bright hair of his only friend, shimmering in the dancing candlelight of the Great Hall, at the wrong end. 

She’s sat next to James (or, more accurately, he’d sat next to her, Severus recalls, and feels ever so slightly better). He still smarts, thinking about those things James had said. As though being a Slytherin is the worst imaginable thing. As if wanting to be in Slytherin had meant Severus wasn’t worth looking twice at. 

A hot curl of shame and anger is burning in his stomach, and Severus breathes out slowly and tries to remember how amazing this place is. At any rate, he’ll be away from his father--away from the cold stares, the sharp words, the harsh sting of the occasional slap. He’ll be on his own, maybe for the first time in his life not having to hear the giggling whispers about the state of his clothes or his hair. Maybe he’ll even make some more friends, and maybe Lily won’t be swayed by what she’d heard about his house and will still talk to him.

“Snape, Severus,” Professor McGonagall calls, and he goes.

It’s less than no surprise when the hat shouts “SLYTHERIN” almost the moment it touches his head; and as he goes to the table, Lucius Malfoy (Prefect’s badge gleaming on his robes) shakes his hand and welcomes him warmly to the house.

And just like that, Severus Snape has got a second home.

The welcome back feast is a miracle in itself. Professor Dumbledore stands at its beginning with a list of notices (no Forbidden Forest, no magic in the corridors, no wandering about at night, etc. etc. All things that most everyone knows or can guess, even the newest students.), and then there’s food. More delicious food all in one place than either Severus or Remus can ever recall seeing. It’s even impressive to James and Sirius, who are both used to a certain level of grandeur; and Peter coasts by somewhere in between, glad for a full plate and the opportunity to let the words of those around him wash over him.

By the time the feast is over, everyone in the hall is full and happy and tired, and there’s a great screeching of benches as they push back from the tables to stumble toward their four separate dormitories.

Remus finds himself trotting along to what feels like the highest tower imaginable, tired as he is. When the Prefect who’d led them there knocks at the Common Room door, it wheezes something Remus can’t hear, as he’s toward the back of the crowd. But another boy a few rows in front of him groans quietly and says, “Merlin, we’ve got to answer a bloody riddle every time we want to get inside?”

For Remus’s part, he just smiles to himself. A riddle seems, somehow, safer than a password; and he’s always been good at them. Maybe because he’s had so much time on his own, with nothing to do but think; but he’s not thinking about that just now. Instead, he’s hurrying through the door with the rest of his classmates (!!!) and staring open-mouthed around him at the circular room. Most of it is done in shades of bronze and blue, and there’s a cluster of armchairs around a merrily crackling fire. The arched windows have what he imagines to be a beautiful view of the grounds outside--difficult to see, given how late it is. There’s a stone bust on the fireplace, of a beautiful woman wearing a stone likeness of some sort of tiara (the lost diadem, his mind supplies helpfully, dredging up what he’d remembered from the books he’d devoured the moment he’d realized this was real and not some fever dream brought on by another difficult moon).

He wants to sit and take it all in; even so young, he doesn’t sleep much. And it occurs to him, glancing around, that he hadn’t noticed when the others all traipsed up the stairs to the dorms, so he very well could just...stay here. He chooses the chair closest to the windows, twisting eagerly on the cushion so that he can stare around him. If he focuses, he can make out the forest in the distance, can see the surface of the lake rippling as the rain pours down. There are lights on in the gamekeeper’s cabin, and the windows blink cheerfully at him. Even in the pitch dark, the grounds are gorgeous.

The room as well. The whole thing feels like a new beginning, and Remus takes several minutes just to breathe it all in. Slowly, he starts to notice himself melting bonelessly into the chair in genuine comfort. Only when he is in real danger of falling asleep does he force himself to get to his feet and move, almost soundlessly, up the stairs to the first year dormitory. The wolf in him allows him to see better in the dark, and he can see where his trunk has been left, see the still-made canopy bed left for him. He changes quickly, folds the blankets back, and collapses into an undignified and entirely delighted sprawl. For maybe the first time in his life, he’s asleep immediately.

James finds nothing surprising in Gryffindor Tower. Having grown up on stories of the Fat Lady and the Common Room, he’s come into it almost entirely aware of what to expect. Still, it’s amazing. He almost wants to twirl around, or shout or something; but he doesn’t want to look like a ponce, so he restrains the impulse with great difficulty. Nearby, Lily Evans seems to have made friends with another girl immediately, a girl with long blonde braids whose name James doesn’t remember. They stand close together and gasp about everything, wide-eyed, until Lily flops across the overstuffed couch and lets out a delighted giggle when she bounces a little. Everything about this is so wonderful, and she finds herself wishing she had some way of capturing it all, some way to send it home to her family so that they’ll know--so that they’ll see all the incredible, too-good-to-be-true things their youngest daughter is going to do.

Mary helps pull her to her feet after a moment, and she thinks about tugging her down instead, but they’re not close enough for that, not yet, so she just lets herself be pulled. They take beds next to each other immediately. She’s still not sure how she’d found a friend so fast (something about both of them knowing the real words to the Muggle song the suit of armor had been singing as they’d passed it, and the way both of them had tied their hair with gold ribbon), but what she does know is that she’s really, impossibly glad for it.


End file.
